The Ixchel Wilds
Dawn had arrived, her entrance marked by the song of unseen birds nestled in the treetops and the vague threat of sunlight that would never truly pierce through the thick canopy. There was nothing strange or unusual about it with the cycle of day and night deciding to keep a very sensible schedule. Familiarity was good, familiarity was safe, even if the Wilds were known as anything but 'good' and 'safe' and keeping in line with familiar scenes...
...Bruk was lost.
Well, technically if you asked Bruk he would have told you (LOUDLY) that he was exactly where he was meant to be, his meaty footfalls guided by the very hand of nature herself. This, of course, was just a very fancy way of saying that one was misplaced. He wandered in whichever direction his heart suggested, leaving a trail of broken bodies and decimated villages in his wake. Being the official 'Guardian ov da Forest' was a very important role, after all, and the Orc was now a large contributing factor in the sudden spike in unemployment amongst fletchers.
Save a tree, kill a villager.
Speaking of trees, Bruk was currently inhabiting one. It was definitely a sight not meant for the eyes of a common rabble. An Orc in a tree? What next? A vegetarian Nordenfiir? A tolerable Elf?
Ah, but the promise of food was the greatest promise of all, and in the tall reaches of the dew-soaked branches sat plump (and presumably juicy) berries. They were the siren’s call to the bottomless pit that was otherwise known as Bruk’s stomach and so with all the graceful finesse that he could muster he had climbed the tree. It could have been construed as an act of hypocrisy to declare oneself as the Guardian of Nature while simultaneously molesting a tree with great bark-shredding hands and feet that broke branches not capable of supporting a large, green idiot but mercifully, hypocrisy was a notion that flew far above Bruk’s dented head.
He could accost as many trees as he wanted because nature gives to those who give back and the Orc’s tribute came in scores of crimson.
Coincidentally, the very berries that he had painstakingly climbed for were also crimson. Upon closer inspection, Bruk’s piggy little eyes discerned that they were oblong in shape and approximately the size of the tip of his thumb. A mental note was made of this by the Orc as he popped one into his gaping maw and chewed.
It tasted like...horse?
“DESE IZ HORSE BERRIES!” Bruk declared triumphantly before he began to shove fistfuls of the discovery into his greedy face, with little care for the side-effects of eating strange fruits.
Dawn had arrived, her entrance marked by the song of unseen birds nestled in the treetops and the vague threat of sunlight that would never truly pierce through the thick canopy. There was nothing strange or unusual about it with the cycle of day and night deciding to keep a very sensible schedule. Familiarity was good, familiarity was safe, even if the Wilds were known as anything but 'good' and 'safe' and keeping in line with familiar scenes...
...Bruk was lost.
Well, technically if you asked Bruk he would have told you (LOUDLY) that he was exactly where he was meant to be, his meaty footfalls guided by the very hand of nature herself. This, of course, was just a very fancy way of saying that one was misplaced. He wandered in whichever direction his heart suggested, leaving a trail of broken bodies and decimated villages in his wake. Being the official 'Guardian ov da Forest' was a very important role, after all, and the Orc was now a large contributing factor in the sudden spike in unemployment amongst fletchers.
Save a tree, kill a villager.
Speaking of trees, Bruk was currently inhabiting one. It was definitely a sight not meant for the eyes of a common rabble. An Orc in a tree? What next? A vegetarian Nordenfiir? A tolerable Elf?
Ah, but the promise of food was the greatest promise of all, and in the tall reaches of the dew-soaked branches sat plump (and presumably juicy) berries. They were the siren’s call to the bottomless pit that was otherwise known as Bruk’s stomach and so with all the graceful finesse that he could muster he had climbed the tree. It could have been construed as an act of hypocrisy to declare oneself as the Guardian of Nature while simultaneously molesting a tree with great bark-shredding hands and feet that broke branches not capable of supporting a large, green idiot but mercifully, hypocrisy was a notion that flew far above Bruk’s dented head.
He could accost as many trees as he wanted because nature gives to those who give back and the Orc’s tribute came in scores of crimson.
Coincidentally, the very berries that he had painstakingly climbed for were also crimson. Upon closer inspection, Bruk’s piggy little eyes discerned that they were oblong in shape and approximately the size of the tip of his thumb. A mental note was made of this by the Orc as he popped one into his gaping maw and chewed.
It tasted like...horse?
“DESE IZ HORSE BERRIES!” Bruk declared triumphantly before he began to shove fistfuls of the discovery into his greedy face, with little care for the side-effects of eating strange fruits.
